He stood for a minute motionless beneath it.

Shadows chequered the street.

Other figures, single and together, poured out, wavered across, and obliterated Florinda and the man.
The light drenched Jacob from head to toe.

You could see the pattern on his trousers; the old thorns on his stick; his shoe laces; bare hands; and face.
It was as if a stone were ground to dust; as if white sparks flew from a livid whetstone, which was his spine; as if the switchback railway, having swooped to the depths, fell, fell, fell.

This was in his face.
Whether we know what was in his mind is another question.